Rage and Love
by SmashTheSilence
Summary: Fic inspired by Green Day's song and video "Jesus of Suburbia."  Rated T for language and some angsty themes. Told from Whatsername's POV. Reviews make the world go 'round.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I do not own the "Jesus of Suburbia" song or video. Any music used for inspiration or as the title of a chapter is the sole property of Green Day, I am simply borrowing some of their ideas for a plotline. Reviews (especially constructive criticism) are welcome, if anyone is actually reading this. Sorry this chapter is so short; I promise to fit more in the next one._

_And here we go... :D_

_**Day 50, 5:34 p.m.**_

The sharpie feels slick and powerful in my hand as I twist the cap off and hold it between my teeth. Where to start? There aree so many possibilities. The mirror, for instance, or the toilet seat covered in god-knows-what. And I'm not even sure he does.

Oh, screw that. I'll just start with the wall.

It only takes a few minutes before a thousand angry faces are glaring back at me, two thousand disapproving eyes. I ink a large blot in the center, pressing the tip in until it breaks. Black splatters against the tile, and I connect the dots into a jagged spiral. And then I'm on a roll. Hearts, people, animals bleeding all over the page, smashed under tires. Spiked zigzags that resemble words, contorted with rage. Chain link fences, metal wires, smoking joints. I let it all flow into the structure of the neighborhood 7-11 while the employees sneak a smoke or fix smoothie machines, completely unaware of the mayhem in the unisex bathroom. I draw until the marker tip is a fanned out banana peel and what's left of the ink has smeared all over my palm. I pause in that one perfect moment, surrounded by a life's worth of rage, until I finally realize what I'm waiting for, what will never happen: for someone to find me.

A switch goes off in my head, and the marker takes a death plunge as I sink down to the floor. Hot, wet tears run quietly down my face, embarrassed to even exist, though they don't need to be because I'm as good as invisible. I steal a glance in the mirror and there I am, black eyeliner streaks surrounded by thicket of wild ebony, squeezing my head against the pounding noise of hurt and betrayal.

I just can't handle it anymore. Home. Noise. Everything.

Two pills, so innocent and white. Printed with labels of illegible letters, intended for medical use.

These parcels of death will determine my fate.


	2. Chapter 2

_**1998**_

When I was little, we had a crucifix hanging in our dilapidated living room. It was the only semblance of decoration in the house, save for the slaughtered posters in my room. I used to sit on our couch, plucking threads from the cushions and staring at it. He made me nervous, like those weird clerks that hassle you in the middle of the mall to buy their knock-off products. I felt like He was watching me. Challenging me to do something better with my life. He was an ever-constant presence, following me with painted eyes as I wandered around our meager house, going through the motions of a less-than-normal childhood. I began to love the silky sheen of his skin, longed to touch the shining surface of the avenging cross. And slowly, surely, I became curious of his story, wanted to hear it straight from his lacquered lips.

When impatience became too much for me, I asked my mom who it was, just to get her talking about it.

I had never seen her eyes freeze like that before. I flinched under her stare, counting the seconds until she'd explode. A cold sweat covered my body; I was old enough to know when to be afraid. But instead, she was wordless as she rose up and plucked the crucifix from the wall, caring it between her fingers like a piece of rotten fruit. She dropped it into the Chinet plate she was using as an ashtray, and sat back down on the couch.

I waited for her the answer to my question, but it never came.

Instead, Mother Dearest dug her scorching cigarette into the glimmering face, squashing my heart with a single flaming ash. His facade melted and burned, and I realized that my shining prince was not fine porcelain, but molded plastic. His gentle smile was twisted into a gape of fear as my world was being dissolved by a smoking Marlboro. I watched in horror, almost sure my features were an identical mask of contortion.

Then she mercifully, jerkingly stopped. She took a long, lazy drag, and finally glanced at my broken body, indifferent to the wounds in my eyes. "That's all you need to know about him," she said in finality, turning her attention back to the flickering TV as I slowly fell apart at the seams.

_**Day 40, 6:47 p.m.**_

He nuzzles my tattooed neck feverishly, leaving a mark of his own on the hollow of my throat. I gasp as his hands splay against my back, pressing closer, sliding up to rest beneath the cotton of my t-shirt. Probing fingers play with the catch of my bra, and I break away from the kiss with a start. "Wait—"

He splatters kisses over my collarbone and shoulders, ignoring my protest with another sharp bite that brings not pleasure, but pain. I gasp and shove him away, fists connecting to his jaw with a hard thud.

"I can't do this anymore," I say, grabbing my discarded jacket from the alcohol-stained floor. He wrenches my arm in an iron grasp, bending me down to floor level with him. "Let me _go_, you basta—"

He slaps a hand over my lips, forcing me into silence. "When did you suddenly become concerned with being faithful? Huh?" I squirm, digging my teeth into the soft flesh of his palm. He ignores me. "You think Jimmy doesn't mess around too? You think he doesn't go to someone else when you're not around to bang?"

I snarl and rip away from his grasp, carving my heels into the floor as I tear from the room. I hear a muffled curse, but instead of following me, he tosses one more dagger at my retreating back: "Next time you're worried about breaking his heart, _you_ _fucking think_ about how he made you feel when you caught him with that cheap slut at Tunny's party. And then you'll know what it is that you really want."

I slam the door behind me, frame rattling like the breath in my chest as his words echo through my weed-fogged brain. _What you really want. _I'm not sure if I can even figure out what that is anymore.

The knob feels like a gun in my hand as I re-enter the room.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Review, review, review please! I need some motivation. D: I promise the next one will be longer._

_**Day 50, 4:57 p.m.**_

"What was I to you?" Jimmy spits, eerily calm.

I shake my head, blow air through my nose, and this time he screams:

"_What the #!*% was I to you?"_

I jerk back, as if his words were a physical blow. I won't cry. I _will not_ cry. "A friend. Someone I loved. And a memory. A #!*% beautiful, #!*% memory." The tears are heavy behind my voice.

Disbelief hardens his face. "You know what?" Jimmy whispers, shaking his head, but then his voice grows stronger. "I don't love you." He pauses, swallowing, and I see the cool fury in his eyes. "You don't even get to be a memory."

Something snaps, and rage replaces my hurt. I lean closer, taunting him, daring him to hit me. "Nice #!*% tattoo, then."

The expression on his face is bitter as he steals one more kiss, locking my mouth with his like a fly on tape. This is nothing like the tender embraces we shared at midnight, riding out our high behind closed doors. This is a show of dominance, one last slap to my shattered resolve. He looks triumphantly over his shoulder as he walks away, reveling in the pieces of my heart that litter the ground like broken gravel.

I sit up, snatching a rock from the dust, and give it my best aim toward his retreating back. "_ #!*% you!"_ I scream, angry tears streaking through my eyeliner as I turn away.

"Oh what, you're gonna come after me?" He mocks. His hands are shackles as he slams me against the spray painted wall.

I gasp, breath coming out in short gusts as sobs wrack my chest. I push him away, but his arms are a wire cage. " #!*% you," I whisper, the words contorted by tears and pain.

Jimmy stares in disgust like I'm a crumpled dog on the highway. He pushes my head back into the cement, forcing my eyes to his. His words are slow and deliberate, as if he were speaking to a child. "You…are #!*% just a pair of tits. That's all you've ever been to me."

I look at his furrowed brow and gaze at the resentful flames in his eyes. I wonder if I put them there. "I…want…to go….home…" I whisper, because I've realized it's too late. There's no way to turn this hate into love. I thrash in his arms, finding a strength that wasn't there before, and shove him back. "_Go!" _

He rips away, kicking over an empty trashcan as he passes. It leaves a metallic thud ringing in my ears.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks for the reviews/alerts! They're awesome for motivation. Sorry this one took so long...school caught up with me, and for some reason, this chapter didn't come as easily as the others. I hope it doesn't disappoint :D_

_**Day 45, 3:16 p.m.**_

The fluorescent lights buzz and crackle over my head, the light pounding an artificial migraine into my skull. I rub my hairline and squint against the plastered advertisements and twenty different varieties of gum and tobacco. The clerk in front of me is not amused, and she huffs impatiently as if I'm holding up the line to the cash register, even though I'm the only customer in the store. I stand there a while longer, shuffling a few dollar bills together as I consider making a purchase.

She glances longingly back to the stained staff lounge room, and sighs in exasperation at my motionless state. "_Can I help you?"_

I blink, startled by the double meaning of her words. My eyes turn bitter, narrowed and focused on the floor. Employee of the Month looks at me like I'm crazy. I turn to leave, but then remember to throw something back at her between the slit of a slamming door:

"No one can help me."

The truth of these words wrenches my gut as I flee to the parking lot.

_**Day 24, 12:28 p.m.**_

"Let me exp—"

"_Don't touch me!" _I scream, jerking away from his grasp. "You lying, filthy son of a-"

"It was nothing, I swear! It meant nothing!" He keeps pace behind me as I stalk angrily through the vandalized alleyway.

"Nothing? You macking in the corner with some second-rate slut meant _nothing?" _I hurl at him, remembering the way her bare legs curled around his waist, and the sultry groans from his treacherous mouth. I want to claw his eyes out, slash his throat, make him beg for death on the broken sidewalk. But I also want to feel those arms around me again. I shake my head, angry prickles forming in the back of my eyes.

He grabs me, forcing my wounded eyes to look at his. "Please let me explain."

"There's nothing to expla-"

I am cut off by his kiss. It is frustrated and dominating, forcing my will to bend against his. He crushes me to his chest, and traps me between iron bars. "It didn't mean anything," he whispers against my cheek, his voice soft and persuasive, twisting my anger into weakness.

And like an idiot, I believe him.

_**Day 40, 10:38 p.m.**_

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Jimmy's voice is a disbelieving drone in my ear.

I slowly roll my eyes to look at his as he half-carries, half-drags me up from the parking lot. The buzz I'm riding is nice, everything just the right amount of blurry around the edges; his intervention is a wholly unwelcome one. Rather than cooperate, I let my body sag like a garbage bag against his slim frame, my mouth slack in a lazy laugh that lacks any humor.

He gets me to my feet, and I stare defiantly back. After all, I'm just returning the favor.

That's when Jimmy throws the first punch. Not at me, but at Will, though I suspect my face may have flashed in his eyes right before he landed the blow. The high I'm tripping seeps down to the warped cement, and then I'm screaming.

I step between them as Will shoves back, and the pissed off shouts ringing through the air are mine. Jimmy curses and grabs me by the mouth, shutting me into silence. I stamp on his foot just enough so that his grip loosens, and aim my hours-old gum at his indignant face. I'm tossed away like a wasted cigarette butt.

Will takes advantage of the situation and drives him into the ground, fists unrelenting against Jimmy's sharp jaw line. The crowd is raucous in either encouragement or horror; I can't tell the difference.

I lose track of who has the tactical advantage as the fight flops along with my stomach; stale bile rises in my throat and threatens to erupt, but I choke it down, entranced by the horror unfolding in front of me. The wet scrape of flesh against asphalt echoes throughout the parking lot, skin peeling away to form crimson tattoos on both, mingling with the faded ink on snow white.

Someone steps forward, the only sanity in the mosh pit of noise and primitive anger. Arms are jerked away, fingernails clawing only at the empty air now, and then they're gone. And though I can feel the audience's gaze blistering my back, I feel more alone than ever before, surrounded by the pieces of a destruction that was really all my own.


End file.
